Sometime ago-I'm not sure when-I was struck by the strangeness of our experience of time. It may have been in the space hollowed out by three bay windows, looking out onto a row of aging Victorian houses and a Jack in the Box on the corner of a street in North Oakland, California. There were burger wrappers and bits of plastic gusting across the lawn every now and then, but these were mostly abstract forms and forces. Visible through them was a world of paddy cultivators and itinerant herdsmen, banana groves and dry stubbled fields, scarred green slopes and flowing brown waters, in the distant valley in South India where I had spent most of the previous two years. Like the bored and the lovelorn, nostalgic and dreaming, I was in one place, thinking of another. But in this sitting before a blue-green iMac, in the idling, rustling and sometimes typing what would become a dissertation, life in the present had become an enlivening of the past-to be opened, imagined, thought, and inhabited, even as it remained stubbornly unclear what it was and could yet be.This article concerns the question of newness in anthropology, and how we might understand its emergence in the diverse worlds of experience we encounter and engage.1 This is a concern that many of us share, especially with the development of a "contemporaneous anthropology," which begins, as Marc Augé writes, with the acknowledgment that "the other changes" along with us. 2 This simple yet belated acknowledgment has posed grave challenges for a discipline accustomed to tacking between conceptual and empirical elaboration: What forms of thought could possibly keep pace with the boundless forms of change visible everywhere we